The poem Dead Soldiers by James Fenton is an example of journalistic poetry. This poetry comes in the form of reporting. Many ideas are implied through metaphors and symbols maintaining the clarity and trustworthiness of whatever are being reported. This poem renders one particular event; a party in Cambodian Civil War. The party is organized by Prince Norodom Chantaraingsey in the battlefield and the poet is invited to attend the party.

      The poem begins with a reference to the invitation that Norodom sent to the poet. In the description of the party and the kinds of recipe (dishes) that are being served, poet satirizes the war and demonstrates his critical position regarding the war. He is referring to the Norodom as mad. The organization of party in the battle field shows that the war managers are fighting not for the people. They are in the war to please themselves. The way war is romanticized from the view point of “His Excellency” and the mood of relaxation found in Norodom further reveals the futility of war. It is the war in which the common people victimized by brutality.
      “Frogs legs” “pregnant turtles” and “boiled eggs” are the dishes served in the party reveal the situation of common people. Frog legs can be related to the innocent people and the soldiers fighting for Norodom’s cruelty of war. The image of “pregnant turtles” becomes more vivid and evident to show the Norodom’s cruelty just for the pleasure. It refers to those refugee girls who are raped, made pregnant and mercilessly killed. Similarly boiled eggs refer to the desertification of the land (of the womb of mother) because of bombarding.
      The desire for luxury in the battle field that the poet finds in Narodom is suggested by “Napoleon Bonaparte” whisky. It has multiple connotations in the poem. This makes the war a kind of alcoholic madness in the Norodom. They are spirited with the spirit of war”. Here that poet shows devaluation and dehumanization of those soldiers who are dead in the war. Norodom and his party drink bottles after bottles, and throw the empty bottles which they call dead soldiers. It means that the soldiers are as valueless as the empty bottles after death. And moreover Norodom rejoices looking at the piling of empty bottles this suggests the piled dead soldiers become object of pleasure for him. The soldiers have become deer for Norodom who is born to be hunted by tiger like Norodom.

Dead Soldiers - Poem by James Fenton

When His Excellency Prince Norodom Chantaraingsey
Invited me to lunch on the battlefield
I was glad of my white suit for the first time that day.
They lived will, the mad Norodoms, they had style.
The brandy and the soda arrived in crates.
Bricks of ice, tied around with raffia,
Dripped from the orderlies’ handlebars.

And I remember the dazzling tablecloth
As the APCs fanned out along the road,
The dishes piled high with frogs’ legs,
Pregnant turtles, their eggs boiled in the carapace,
Marsh irises in fish sauce
And inflorescence of a banana salad.

On every bottle, Napoleon Bonaparte
Pleaded for the authenticity of the spirit.
They called the empties Dead Soldiers
And rejoiced to see them pile up at our feet.

Each diner was attended by one of the other ranks
Whirling a table-napkin to keep off the flies.
It was like eating between rows of morris dancers –
Only they didn’t kick.

On my left sat the prince;
On my right, his drunken aide.
The frogs’ thighs leapt into the sad purple face
Like fish to the sound of a Chinese flute.
I wanted to talk to the prince. I wish now
I had collared his aide, who was Saloth Sar’s brother.
We treated him as the club bore. He was always
Boasting of his connections, boasting with a head-shake
Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase.
And well might he boast. Saloth Sar, for instance,
Was Pol Pot’s real name. The APCs
Fired into the sugar palms but met no resistance.

In a diary, I refer to Pol Pot’s brother as the Jockey Cap.
A few weeks later, I find him “in good form
And very skeptical about Chantaraingsey.”
“But one eats well there,” I remark.
“So one should,” says the Jockey Cap;
“The tiger always eats well,
It eats the raw flesh of the deer,
And Chantaraingsey was born in the year of the tiger.
So, did they show you the things they do
With the young refugee girls?”

And he tells me how he will one day give me the gen.”
He will tell me how the prince financed the casino
And how the casino brought Lon Nol to power.
He will tell me this.
He will tell me all these things.
All I must do is drink and listen.

In those days, I thought that when the game was up
The prince would be far, far away –
In a limestone faubourg, on the promenade at Nice,
Reduced in circumstances but well enough provided for,
In Paris, he would hardly require his private army.
The Jockey Cap might suffice for café warfare,
And matchboxes for APCs.

But we were always wrong in these predictions.
It was a family war. Whatever happened,
The principals were obliged to attend its issue.
A few were cajoled into leaving, a few were expelled,
And there were villains enough, but none of them
Slipped away with the swag.

For the prince was fighting Sihanouk, his nephew,
And the Jockey Cap was ranged against his brother
Of whom I remember nothing more
Than an obscure reputation for virtue.
I have been told that the prince is still fighting
Somewhere in the Cardamoms or the Elephant Mountains.
But I doubt that the Jockey Cap would have survived his good
      connections.
I think the lunches would have done for him –
Either the lunches or the dead soldiers.